„We met when you were very sick,“ he said, in a surprisingly normal voice, hardly threatening. „You made a nice recovery, didn’t you?“
She had not expected this – a civilized conversation replete with polite inquires on the state of her health. Had they met in a hospital? There had been so many of them over the years. And then there had been the nursing homes and finally the hospice. Her grip on the ice pick remained very tight.
„No,“ he said, lowering the flashlight. „You wouldn’t remember, would you? You were really out of it then.“
And now she must pin that down to one of three places. They might have met in the last hospital where her health had severely declined, or the nursing home where her life would have ended if not for Bitty. Or was it the hospice?
The man was coming closer, his white hands dangling from the arms of a loose flannel jacket that might conceal any number of weapons.
„Were you a patient, too?“ she asked, as if this might be a normal chat with some acquaintance who had slipped her memory.
„Me? In a nursing home?“ He actually smiled. „Not likely.“
No, he was only thirty years old at the outside. So he had met her in the Maine nursing home.
He placed his flashlight in the crook of his arm, shining its light on the trees behind him, and freeing both hands to open the buttons of his jacket. Did he have a gun? An ice pick could not beat a bullet. He was one step closer, his right hand still concealed.
His backward-shining beam spotlighted another figure in the wood, a lovely face with the luminous skin of a haunt.
Mallory.
The young detective was only a few yards away. Holding a very large gun in one hand, she crept closer with no clumsy breaks of twigs underfoot, but padding like a cat, taking her own time in Nedda’s elongated sense of seconds expanding in slow motion.
The man was pulling his hand from the folds of his jacket. What was that dark object in his hand?
Mallory was smiling as her gun hand was rising. The young policewoman was enjoying this moment, and a moment was all it was before Nedda heard the connection of heavy metal on bone. The man made less noise when he dropped to the ground.
A uniformed policeman stepped out of the woods in the company of Detective Riker, who hailed her with a broad smile and, „Hey, Nedda. How’s it going?“
Mallory waved one hand toward the younger of the two men. „You remember Officer Brill.“
„Yes, of course,“ said Nedda. „He comes to all of our crime scenes.“ She smiled at the patrolman. „How nice to see you again.“
„Evening, ma’am.“ Officer Brill tipped his cap, then turned to the chore of helping Riker pick up the fallen man. They carried the unconscious body up the path that would lead them back to the stone wall. A police car was waiting for them, its red lights spinning through breaks in the trees.
Nedda was left alone with Mallory, who was slow to holster her gun. „What brings you out so late, Miss Winter?“ The young detective circled around Nedda, then dropped her voice to a whisper behind the older woman’s back. „Hunting?“ Louder, Mallory said, „Not enough action back at your house?“
All Nedda saw was the flash of one white hand before she felt a light tug on her jacket. The movement was so quick, there was hardly time to be startled before she realized that the detective had just robbed her pocket of the ice pick.
„Brill was so worried about you,“ said Mallory. „And he even knows how good you are at taking down violent criminals.“ She glanced back over one shoulder, perhaps wanting the assurance they were alone – without witnesses. „Incidentally, that man had a gun, but it was still holstered behind his back.“ The detective held up a small camera. „This is what he had in his hand. So it’s lucky I interrupted you before you killed another unarmed citizen.“
Lucky indeed. Nedda jammed both hands into her pockets, not wanting this young woman to see her tremble so.
The detective was looking down at the ice pick resting on the flat of one palm, then the camera in her other hand. She seemed to be weighing one thing against another. „I don’t know who to charge tonight. It’s a real crap-shoot.“
„If you don’t mind a suggestion?“
„Go for it.“
Nedda looked to the shadows where the police and their prisoner had disappeared. „It might be better if you charge him – since you cracked his skull.“
„Good point.“ Mallory held up the camera. „You run pretty fast, Miss Winter. Yes, we were watching you from the woods. Nice sprint.“ She held up the camera. „Three more shots left on the roll.“ She pointed through the trees toward a path that was well lit. „I want you to run that way – fast as you can.“
When Nedda hesitated, Mallory said, „Do it. Now!“
And Nedda ran. She stumbled the first time she heard the click behind her. She had been shot with the camera. She looked back over one shoulder to the startling sight of Mallory running behind her and shooting her again.
„That’s good! Now stop!“
Nedda halted on command – like a pet – and turned around to see the detective removing a roll of film from the camera.
„If anyone should ask,“ said Mallory, „my prisoner took those last three pictures.“
„You’re asking me to falsify -
„You’ve got a problem with that? Would you rather visit the local station house and explain what you were doing in the woods with a concealed weapon?“ Mallory rested one hand on her hip. It was a gesture of total disbelief. „I see you at the window every night. Always looking out at the park. You’re holding out on me. That man – you were waiting for him to show up. Am I right?“ Mallory held up the ice pick. „You want to talk about this now? No? Then meet me downtown in six hours.“
„What do you want me to do? Make a statement or – “
„You didn’t get my message? You agreed to take a polygraph exam, Miss Winter. I set it up for this morning. Were you planning to back out?“
„No, I’ll be there.“
The detectives rode in the back of the patrol car with their unconscious prisoner propped up between them. Mallory was going through the man’s wallet.
„This is trouble,“ she said, holding up a private investigator’s license issued in the state of Maine.
„So now we know he’s got a permit for the gun,“ said Riker. „Damn. Too bad you didn’t shoot him, kid. Fat chance we can keep Nedda out of the papers now.“ He rolled back one of the prisoner’s eyelids and waved his hand back and forth between the man’s eyes and the car’s dome light. „The pupils don’t react. I think you might’ve caught a lucky break. He’s not gonna wake up anytime soon. Maybe never.“
„Okay, you win!“ Annoyed, Mallory leaned toward the driver. „Cancel the SoHo station. Aim this car at the nearest hospital.“
The prisoner transport swerved off Seventh Avenue and rolled into the emergency entrance for Saint Vincent’s Hospital in Greenwich Village.
Riker, sarcastic alarmist, gave her no credit for knowing how to pull her shots. She had not hit the man all that hard, and he would certainly live. Also, and this was a bonus, a prolonged awakening worked in her favor. She could have the photographs developed before the man regained consciousness.
Nedda parted company with Officer Brill on the stairs outside her front door. She entered the house by herself despite his kind offer to come inside with her. After crossing the room in the dark, aided by memory alone, her hand closed on the banister, and she made the long climb to the second-floor landing with time enough for deep regret to settle in.
Why had she ever gone into the park?
The man with the camera was most likely a reporter, and now irreparable damage had been done. Cleo and Lionel would have to bear the consequence of her little walk in the woods tonight. Very soon, perhaps in the early morning hours, they would be accosted by microphones shoved in their faces, cameras and questions to fend off.